


Double Bind

by sunken_standard



Series: It's Always the Losing Side [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: He listened to her breathing. Wondered how the hell it had all gone so spectacularly wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to [It's Always the Losing Side.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9557489)
> 
> Thank you to madder_badder for looking it over :D

*

 

"You don't have to be here, you know. I've done this on my own more times than I can count," he said, teeth chattering.

 

"I should have noticed," she offered as an explanation.

 

"As though you could have stopped me. Guilt doesn't become you." Haughty and cutting didn't have nearly the impact it should have when it was coming from a pathetic lump sweating under a blanket.

 

"You don't get to decide what I feel." There was no malice in her words.

 

*

 

He was ill again, dry-heaving before spitting into the toilet, wishing he hadn't branched out to amphetamines this time.

 

Molly knelt with a flannel and glass of water.

 

"Is this some kind of penance for you?" he asked, groping blindly for the flush handle. "Or are you enjoying it?"

 

"You're the only one here punishing yourself, Sherlock," she said, a razorblade.

 

He rested his temple on his arm and turned his face to the side. "Go away."

 

*

 

"It wasn't because of you." He didn't know if it was an insult or an absolution. He just wanted the aching to stop, for the cramps to go away, for sleep to finally take him.

 

"I don't think that highly of myself," she answered flippantly from his chair.

 

"You should." This time it was more of a barb; he wanted to pick a fight and make her leave him to his misery.

 

"Maybe _you_ should think more highly of yourself," she said, twisting it around on him, pointedly eyeing fading track marks.

 

He never realized she was the type to press on a bruise. Then again, maybe he'd always known it.

 

*

 

He was sleeping when she left, replaced by John again, then Mrs. Hudson. He tried not to be awake for most of it.

 

She came back, all homemade soup and smiles that looked like they'd been slapped on with a trowel.

 

One night and she was already starting to fray. What could he do in a week?

 

He didn't think he wanted to find out.

 

*

 

"Chin up," she said, razor poised.

 

He didn't know why he was letting her do it; maybe he was hoping she'd slip and slit his throat. Not that she could with a safety razor anyway. Though, with the way his hands were shaking, he might be able to do it to himself.

 

"You'll feel more like yourself again when this is gone," she said, scraping the razor under his jaw.

 

Delicate, precise, tender. She'd done it before. Boyfriends? Maybe. Dying Father.

 

Duty. Love.

 

"I always feel like myself," contrary. Because he could be.

 

"Mm," disinterested agreement. "Then let's get you looking the part, at least."

 

He wondered if the memory of his stubble made her uncomfortable. Good. Misery was known for its hospitality.

 

*

 

She smoothed ointment on his arm, wrapped it in clean gauze.

 

"You have to stop scratching. I know--"

 

"You really don't know."

 

"I went to medical school, I understand the consequences of overstimulation of the central nervous system," she all but bellowed. Heightened senses were part of it, too. "The topiramate should help."

 

"For the last time, no."

 

"You shot up cocktails of drugs that should have you six feet under and you won't take a bloody anticonvulsant that's safe enough for babies."

 

"If I wanted to feel brain dead, I would have overdosed myself into a persistent vegetative st—ow!"

 

Her bony thumb dug into the tender underside of his wrist.

 

"Don't you ever joke about that. Ever."

 

He pulled his wrist from her grasp but refused to rub it on principle.

 

"When I get clean, I do it without help," he said. "Chemical or otherwise."

 

He shut himself up in his bedroom for the rest of the night, ignoring the hunger pangs, the nausea, and the memory of how gentle her hands had been on the raw skin of his arms. How gentle her hands had always been.

 

*

 

He was still in the bath when she got there. He could hear them talking about him in hushed voices, couldn't make out the words over the echo of the water, the running of the tap in the kitchen, clanking of dishes being put away.

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed, then her footsteps retreated down the stairs.

 

"Sherlock," soft knuckles on the door. "I brought dinner. I can heat it up whenever you're hungry."

 

"I'm fine, thanks," he dismissed.

 

He didn't know why he was acting like this.

 

*

 

"I'm turning in now, Sherlock. Text or shout if you need anything."

 

"Stay with me," he said, grabbing her hand.

 

He was curled up on the bed, his entire body one giant never-ending cramp.

 

"I don't think that's a good idea." She was thinking of last time, it was written all over her face.

 

"I couldn't fuck you right now even if you wanted me to," he snorted. "The sofa isn't that comfortable anyway."

 

He knew she wouldn't before she even opened her mouth to make an excuse.

 

*

 

He couldn't sleep. Three days and nights of doing little else and he'd finally got his fill, he supposed.

 

He crept to the living room, lowered himself to the floor in front of the sofa without thinking about why he was doing it. The floor was cold; he deserved it. He tilted his head back to rest against the front of the arm of the sofa.

 

He listened to her breathing. Wondered how the hell it had all gone so spectacularly wrong.

 

_Pick a fight with a bad guy you can't win._

 

The one in the mirror seemed to suffice at the time.

 

*

 

"So, you up to giving your statement yet?" Lestrade asked with little preamble. Four days of confessions, as though he needed more paperwork. Social call, vaguely.

 

Molly handed Lestrade tea like it was her own flat; when was the last time she'd been a guest?

 

He shrugged from where he was folded up in his chair; he couldn't seem to get warm even with a blanket and a hot water bottle under his feet.

 

"No time like the present."

 

Lestrade moved the side table closer and took John's chair, set up the recorder.

 

Molly hovered for a moment, unsure, then went back to the kitchen and slid the doors closed.

 

He wished she hadn't.

 

*

 

"You're not going to sleep on the floor again tonight, are you?"

 

"I won't sleep on the floor if you don't sleep on the sofa."

 

"Bring a blanket and a pillow this time," she suggested, going back to typing something on her laptop.

 

*

 

He wanted a fix. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, feel it in the back of his throat. His nerves jangled, he had bugs under his skin, his stomach was twisted in knots of hunger, sickness.

 

She was in the kitchen, washing dishes from the dinner he hadn't touched.

 

He stood close, watching. Picked his moment.

 

"Did you sleep with John, too?"

 

She was speechless, dropping the mug (his favorite) back into the sink; he heard it break when it hit the bottom.

 

"Fuck you," she said, grabbing a towel and moving around the table to get away from him.

 

"Yes, you did. Twice, in fact."

 

"And what a mistake that was."

 

That's what he was looking for, the pain. He hadn't expected it to be quite so intense, but that made it better. Agony on top of agony, canceling each other out.

 

She went to where she'd been keeping her things at the foot of the sofa. Grabbed her bag, grabbed her coat.

 

"Where are you going?" he asked, an accusation.

 

What if he'd actually hit a sore spot?

 

No, John wouldn't. Not even in a moment of grief. Not that she would with John, either.

 

"Anywhere you aren't right now."

 

Because she was an adult, she didn't slam the door behind her.

 

Because he wasn't, he did.

 

*

 

Texting Mycroft would be admitting weakness. Texting John would be admitting a mistake. Texting her would be admitting defeat.

 

He chose defeat.

 

**I didn't mean it. SH**

 

**I'm sorry. SH**

 

**Please come back. SH**

 

**I need you. SH**

 

**Stay with me. SH**

 

He typed each out and promptly deleted them.

 

He heard the front door, glanced at the time, hid his phone, rolled over to face the back of the sofa. She'd been gone less than an hour.

 

Hardly a victory.

 

*

 

She slept in his chair.

 

He made enough noise to wake her when he finally left the sofa; she turned her face away and resettled herself against the arm.

 

*

 

Her face was pinched, her movements stiff. Her spite had physical consequences. It should have given him a small sense of satisfaction.

 

She was sat at the kitchen table, a tube of glue in one hand, the handle of his mug in the other. It had nothing to do with Make Do and Mend; a replacement from Poundland would have sufficed.

 

He knew exactly what he was doing when he came up behind her, let his hands drop to her shoulders.

 

So deceptively frail, he thought, brushing his thumbs over the tops of her shoulder blades.

 

He waited for her to push him away; her spine was rigid, muscles tense, fight or flight.

 

She sagged under his hands, dropped her chin to her chest with a defeated noise.

 

He could walk away now, take the surrender for what it was.

 

He smoothed his thumbs over her shoulder blades again, this time increasing the pressure.

 

She set the mug handle down, capped the glue.

 

He rubbed circles on either side of her spine at the base of her neck, his fingertips hooking under her collarbones.

 

She exhaled a noise of pleasure-pain; _like that, more_.

 

Conquest, however fleeting.

 

*

 

It was an uneasy peace. The chills, the aches, the cramps, the nausea—the excuses for his aggression—had all mostly subsided, leaving only agitation in their place. Restlessness. Boredom.

 

Hunger.

 

The hollow ache of _craving_.

 

"Tell me about cases."

 

"Boring."

 

"Telly?"

 

"No."

 

"We'll play a game."

 

"What kind of game?" His interest was piqued just enough to glance in her direction.

 

"Cards? Board games? Anything."

 

"No," he growled.

 

*

 

He rounded the lounge for the hundredth time, glanced at his violin, didn't pick it up again.

 

Caged. He needed out. He needed a fix.

 

She stepped into his path, looked up at him.

 

It was an offer.

 

*

 

"Don't leave marks," she said when his teeth found her neck.

 

He disregarded the order, open-mouthed kisses down her chest to nip and suck the skin over her heart. He wanted to leave teethmarks in the muscle underneath, a nasty scar she'd feel with every heartbeat.

 

He undid the buttons of her blouse one-handed, manual dexterity returned thanks to the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Tugged down the cup of her bra, caught her nipple in his mouth.

 

She breathed a moan; so sensitive. He could probably get her off with just this.

 

His cock twitched at the thought; he might be able to fuck her after all. Not to orgasm, but it wasn't about that.

 

This was about taking back some of what she'd so casually torn from him. He'd make her regret that night weeks ago for a completely different reason; he'd make her regret not staying.

 

He undid her trousers and she gripped his hair, pulled ineffectually at the fabric of his shirt.

 

No, she'd be the one laid bare this time.

 

He sat back, hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pants, tugged. She lifted her hips, her eyes closed and face turned away.

 

It was fine, she didn't need to look. She couldn't pretend he was someone else. She wouldn't.

 

He gripped behind her knee, tugged until her arse was at the edge of the bed. Dropped to the floor, ran his hands up the tops of her thighs while taking in the sight of her.

 

He kissed the inside of her knee, shifted it over his shoulder, did the same for the other leg. Bit the inside of her thigh, a reminder for later. A bruise to press on when she was in the bath, replaying every moment of it.

 

He teased her open with his tongue, flicked and lapped and sucked while she bit back her cries for fear of being overheard. He liked that; she wasn't going down without a fight.

 

She bucked against him, tensed, shook; he drew it out until she grabbed his hair and pulled him away.

 

He kissed the inside of her thigh once more, disentangled himself from her legs, stood. He felt it in his knees, his quads, his lower back. Good. The discomfort was enough to remind him this was about more than just sex.

 

Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She was thinking; he didn't want her thinking. He undressed slowly, drawing her attention far enough away from her thoughts for her to shrug out of her blouse, cast aside her bra, to scoot up the bed and lie on her side, her head propped on her hand as she watched.

 

He knew she liked what she saw. Always had. Her eyes flickered for a moment when they landed on the scar under his ribs; he'd never told her it was Mary. He never would.

 

He crawled onto the bed, rolled her on her back. Kissed her mouth, finally; pressed his body the entire length of hers, let her feel the ridge of his cock against her hip. He shifted between her thighs, positioning himself so it would only take one small movement by either of them to penetrate her.

 

He knew they should be using something. She knew the state of his health and that she wasn't at risk, but he didn't know hers. He really didn't care. There was always a chance, however slim, of an accident; he didn't care about that, either.

 

Nor, apparently, did Molly; she tensed her thighs and rolled her hips just so and he was sliding inside her, just the tip. He couldn't imagine she lived dangerously like this with other partners, she wasn't the type.

 

Only him.

 

He kissed her, filling her in one long, insistent thrust. She was so hot, so wet, soft and quivering from her last orgasm; he might be able to come after all.

 

He started slow; they had all night.

 

Molly, never content to go along for the ride, met him move for move, guiding him as to how she wanted it; slower on the inward thrust, hold for a beat, quicker on the withdrawal. Her hands skated over his back, kneading and scratching, gliding over sweat-slick skin before finding purchase.

 

They'd stopped kissing at some point, their lips just catching as they breathed against each other's mouths; he ran his lips along her jaw to her ear, nipped the lobe.

 

"Tell me... Tell me what you need." He opened his mouth against her neck, so tempted to leave a trace of himself, just a shadow.

 

"Just this. You."

 

He kissed her again, fucking her as deeply as he could, fucking her breathless.

 

She pulled the hair at the base of his neck when she came.

 

He rocked her through the aftershocks, enjoying the way she clung to him, lost in a storm and he was the only wreckage for miles to keep her afloat.

 

He stilled, kissed her, pulled out. It wasn't going to happen tonight; frustrating, but it didn't matter.

 

"Did you--?"

 

He shook his head, dipped down to kiss along her collarbones.

 

He could feel her closing off and he hated it. She wasn't delusional, she was a doctor. She knew that it wasn't her, it was him.

 

She probably hated being reminded of what he was.

 

His lips curled into a snarl against her chest and he rolled off of her; they lay shoulder-to-shoulder, but they may as well have been miles apart.

 

After a minute, she got up. Grabbed her blouse from where it had been discarded on the corner of the bed. Picked up her trousers.

 

"Probably not as good as the coke anyway, right?" she said, the false cheer in her voice more cutting than anger or bitterness or bile could ever be.

 

He clenched his jaw, looked up at the ceiling. Didn't matter what he said, anyway.

 

She wasn't just some replacement, some placebo.

 

She was right, though, in a way. Coke was always there when you needed it, as long as you had a supply. And if you ran out, you could always get more. Coke was, at least, reliable.

 

She closed the bathroom door, started the shower.

 

*

 

He wondered if she thought they were even now. One night of pity for one night of pity.

 

There were a hundred different ways to keep that balance sheet, though. Weighted for importance, sex barely made it onto the first page.

 

He made sure not to sleep during the day, even at Mrs. Hudson's prompting to go have a little lie-down, you'll feel better.

 

He slept through dinner into the early hours of the morning. Considered slipping past Molly just to go for a walk to clear his head, stopped himself. It might not end with just a walk.

 

He took a bath, went back to bed.

 

*

 

He managed three days without a word to her.

 

The fourth morning she woke him up, shoved a specimen cup in his hand.

 

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did.

 

He dutifully provided 50ml, set the sample on the kitchen table. She stopped him before he could shuffle back to bed.

 

She began to examine him without preamble; pulse, circulation, veins.

 

"Any pain?" she asked.

 

He wanted to laugh.

 

"No."

 

"Discomfort?"

 

"Constant."

 

She opened her mouth to ask where, describe it.

 

"Existential only," he added.

 

The corner of her lip tugged downward, _smartass_ ; a vestige of how it used to be between them.

 

Her fingers were tender as she pressed on lymph nodes, checked how his eyebrow was healing. She smoothed a thumb over his no-longer swollen cheek and he wanted to lean into it, pretend it wasn't part of her examination.

 

*

 

"Your creatine levels are good," she said when hunger had finally driven him from bed.

 

"Was that all you checked?"

 

"Should I have checked for something else?" She held his gaze, steady.

 

"Going on past experiences, I wouldn't expect you to be so trusting, Molly."

 

She didn't flinch.

 

"And I wouldn't expect you to be so stupid."

 

She set a plate on the kitchen table, gave it a meaningful look. The matter was dismissed.

 

*

 

"I don't think I'll be back tonight," she said hesitantly, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom. She was already dressed for work.

 

"What if I decide to go out and--" he started; he could feel a sneer trying to form on his face.

 

"You won't."

 

"But I could--"

 

"You won't." Conviction.

 

He could take it as a challenge, he thought. Would have, once.

 

She turned to leave, ponytail swishing, fingertips still touching the door frame.

 

"One more night," he blurted, and there might have been desperation there.

 

She looked over her shoulder at him; not just a glance, reading him.

 

 _Please please please just one I can't be alone anymore I can't_ \--

 

"I can't."

 

There was a brittle note to her voice.

 

"I'll, um, I'll see you at the lab, when you're back to taking cases again." She looked down, away; pushed her fingertips off the doorway and walked down the hall.

 

Go after her. Ask her. Beg her. Don't let her leave.

 

He fell back against the pillows, stared up at nothing. Listened to her footsteps in the lounge, on the landing, down the stairs. Listened for the front door closing, but she did it too softly, it was too far away.

 

 

 


End file.
